by Lincoln Law
It was only after the crowd began to dwindle, and the tension had fallen slightly, that Matthon approached him.
“Congratulations, soldier,” he said, extending his hand.
Rhene shook it, feeling the man’s grip painfully around his fingers.
“Thank you, Dreamless,” he replied, returning the grip with his own tightened touch.
“The time to destroy the Oen’Aerei is drawing close,” said Matthon. “Will you be ready to fight those who wish to invade our minds?”
“I am,” Rhene replied.
An intense stare passed between the two, as if Matthon were sizing up Rhene, reading his thoughts for any sign of heresy. He would surely find none.
“Very good,” he replied. “Then be prepared for training. It begins tomorrow morning. Oh-six-hundred hours.”
“I will be,” Rhene replied.
“Very good.” Dreamless Matthon nodded. “Good day.”
Matthon then left.
Rhene, now tired of smiling and nodding, saluting and warding, turned towards the door and left. He had so much to do the following day. He had training, he had to send a telegram to Adabelle and let her know the time for their date, and somewhere to get candles. He needed candles if this date was to be perfect.
As he walked down the streets of Odilla, just beside the channel, he wandered past the Halls of the Oen’Aerei, in which all the Dreamers now resided. He had always imagined them all as being evil, with dark thoughts and darker intentions. They wanted to enter his mind, sap any free thought out, and replace them with new ones. They wanted to intrude on his dreams and kill what memories they could. They wanted to unleash their Nhyxes and infiltrate with their Sturdings.
But he was a Dreamer now, and he wasn’t evil. He was innocent. He barely knew what he was doing in those dreams, and yet he had the same powers of those he was fighting. It seemed he faced two choices now. And both had extraordinarily different outcomes.
In one, he would emerge a Dreamer, an Oen’Aerei. He could leave the Dreamless and become one of those that invaded the minds of the innocent. He would be a traitor in the eyes of the Dreamless, but he would be fighting with those of his kind. He wouldn’t be a liar, even in the eyes of Matthon.
In the other, though, he could keep his skill secret. He could avoid using it entirely, wherever he could—surely enough Slugleaf tea would help with that! He could fight for the Dreamless, and repress his ability that made him a liar.
But of course, there weren’t really two options. There were three. He could use his ability the way Matthon did. He could insure no Dreamers infiltrated the Barracks. If he could keep them out, then he knew his soldiers—those soldiers now serving under him—were safe.
He paused, staring through the gates at the Halls of the Oen’Aerei. Deep in there, Dreamers were being trained to control their powers so that they could be used when the opportunity arose. In espionage, in the government, in agencies that allowed Dreamers. They had their uses, of that Rhene could not argue. But the morality of it all still troubled him.
The decision was obvious. He barely needed to contemplate it for a moment before he’d decided. He had to stay with the Dreamless; betrayal was unthinkable. But he needed to see more fully what the Oen’Aerei did. He had to know what he was fighting for was noble and right and good. He couldn’t follow blindly as he had before, listening to every word of Matthon’s without a second moment to reconsider. He was high enough in the ranks now to make his own decisions, and so he would.
The following morning, his alarm went off at five-forty-five, giving him enough time to dress into his training clothes—pants, boots and a plain shirt—before heading out to the training grounds.
When he arrived, he found Matthon standing in the field, dressed in full greens, the new generals standing before him—four others, it appeared.
“And now we’re all here,” said Matthon.
The sun was only just beginning to rise, the first beams of light illuminating the grounds. There was an odd, early silence to the city at this hour, like it was holding its breath in anticipation for the day to come. The belltower chimed six in the morning, echoing through the city. Nothing but the trees in the wind stirred in response.
“Right, you have all been chosen because of your ability. As you are all aware, we are preparing for war, war with those creatures that call themselves the Oen’Aerei. There is only one outcome we can have in this war. We have to win.” He kept his expression serious the entire time. It was stoic and hard, like stone, his voice gravelly this hour of the morning.
“Now let’s begin.”
The next hour was an exhausting mix of exercises—push-ups, sit ups, weight training, carrying heavy objects from one side of the grounds to the other—and running on the spot during times when they were not doing anything else. It was an hour of constant movement, with only one rest break, during which they were allowed a drink of water. Then, it was straight back into the training.
Rhene had always been fit—he had been in training with the Dreamless for more than two years now—but never had he been pushed so hard. In some small aspect, the training was a competition between the five new Generals—two women, three men—to see who faltered first. Rhene had expected one of the girls to give up first, but they held out the entire hour, giving it all they had. If any of them looked most affected by the training, it was the man who looked the most fit. He had a large chest, and arms like logs, and a neck of sinew and muscle. Yet apparently the weight worked against him, keeping him a little slower than the others, forcing him to push himself even more during times when he struggled to keep up.
All five new generals walked away exhausted, soundless and breathless. Rhene took himself to breakfast in a sweat, eating on his own what he could manage, before he left out of fear of vomiting up everything he’d consumed.
He waiting till his stomach stopped churning, and then he sent the telegram to Adabelle to inform her of the time of the date.
Rhene dropped Adabelle off at the University following their date, kissing her goodnight on the steps outside. She smiled, smelling slightly of vanilla. It was a sweet, delicious scent, and it made him want her even more. She wished him goodnight and stepped into the warmth of the University, just as the clock tower chimed midnight.
Rhene stepped into his cab, glad to be once more out of the cold.
“Dreamless Barracks,” he said. The cab driver nodded and took off.
On the way home, Rhene began to realise how tired he was. It had been a very long day indeed, and he welcomed his bed when he arrived home.
He curled up, closed his eyes, unable to stop his smiling from how well his date had gone. He felt himself drift deeply, and then he slept.
A moment later, he was Dreaming.
He was in his own room, the lights out, the moon shining through the window. But he was sitting up in bed. He felt oddly comfortable here, and he assumed it was due to his being curled up under his blankets.
A strange music began to sound its way through the dream. It was a gentle tune, like it came from a music box, the metal brushes clicking against the bumps on the music wheel. It took him a few moments, for the song was slow and distorted slightly, but he recognised it as The Dreamer’s Lullaby. There were only a few songs he knew, but that one he recognised without much thought at all.
He clambered out of his bed, stepping onto the floor, following the source of the noise. He passed through the walls, his surroundings fuzzing and then darkening before he emerged in another dream. He was in a field, atop a hill, the sunlight shining upon him with mirthful warmth. A soft wind drifted up the hillside, stirring the grass. O that wind was the scent of cologne. It was musky, similar to the scent of shaving cream. Very similar in fact. It was an odd scent for the wind to carry.
A cloud of dust blew in his face. He threw his arm up, shielding his eyes. When the dust stopped and his vision cleared, he lowered his arm. Before him stood a well-dressed man, with a great grey moustac
he and a black top hat.
Suddenly, the scent of shaving cream was stronger somehow, Rhene able to taste it on his tongue.
“Hello,” said the gentleman. He removed his top hat, revealing a bald patch, what little of his hair remained a grey ring.
“Who are you?” Rhene asked. “Are you a part of my dream?”
“No, no, no,” the man replied, smiling. “I’m a Somnetii. A Dreamer like you.” He took a sudden step forward, and Rhene withdrew. The man extended his hand. “What is your name?”
“Rhene,” he replied, hesitantly, extending his own hand carefully. He was going to say another name, yet when the word came to his throat, they sounded differently. It turned to Rhene on the way out. At the mention of his name, the man nodded.
“Don’t worry, Rhene,” the man said. “I’m not going to hurt you at all.” He filled the final few steps between them and took Rhene’s hand, shaking vigorously. “I just want to talk.”
His surroundings shifted suddenly, and they were in a restaurant, at their own table, with wine and food and bread. The delicious aroma of the soup before them both wafted up, intoxicating Rhene with how real it was. Yet even here, where the sounds of conversation echoed from the other diners, and the scent of the food was strong, he could still hear The Dreamer’s Lullaby, and he could still smell the cologne. The music came from the pitch of people’s voices around him; a whistle to the waiter, a sigh from a woman, a yawn from a gentleman; but it was there.
“What about?” asked Rhene.
“I want to ask about the Dreamless.”
“What about them?” he asked.
The man paused, apparently taken aback by his defensive tone.
“I need to know what they plan to do with the Oen’Aerei,” he said. He placed his hands on the table, folding his fingers together in a slow, careful manner.
Rhene went to say nothing, but he quickly remembered what happened the last time he’d tried to lie. Instead, he said, “That’s classified information.”
The man smiled, the music suddenly intensifying. And the scent! He could barely smell the food anymore. The dream’s appearance faded slightly, and for a time, the Dream was only scent and music.
“You’re an agent for the Oen’Aerei, aren’t you?” Rhene asked. “You’ve infiltrated my dream. You’ve tried to get information from me.” He rose suddenly from his seat, the chair thrown back. This wasn’t his dream, this wasn’t his mind, so the chair began to float. “Well you will not get it.”
“I will,” the man said. He rose, too, and in his hand was a knife. Rhene froze.
“You cannot touch me here,” Rhene said.
“Yes I can,” and within a moment, the man had the knife at his throat. It felt so real, the cold steel against his skin. So sharp was the blade it seemed to slice with barely a touch. Rhene barely felt the knife, but he felt the blood. It was hot and red and steamed as it rolled down his neck.
“Barely a scratch,” the man said. “Imagine what I could do if you struggled.”
Rhene fought the desire to scream, and the need to struggle. He had to stay still. He couldn’t risk it. He understood the dream too little to know its limitations. This man could slice him up here, and in the real world, he could stay unaffected; that was how it was meant to work. But he didn’t want to risk it.
“What do you want?” Rhene said. “Who are you?” He whispered it, breathed it, not wanting his throat to move.
“My name is Therron Blaise,” he said, “and I want to know when the Oen’Aerei intend to march,”
Rhene’s eyes widened. Impossible. That can’t be. He’s dead.
“So now you will tell me, boy,” Therron said, pressing the knife closer to his skin. No one saw, no one watched; but it was silent, except for the soft tinkle of The Dreamer’s Lullaby. “You cannot lie here. No one can.”
“I do not know when the army will strike,” Rhene replied. “I have not been general for long.” He paused, sweeping his mind for ideas. “But if you let me go, I can find out. I can let you know. Just let me go, please.”
The knife dug a little deeper, drawing more blood, rolling heat down his throat.
“I will let you go,” Therron said, “but I will find you again and I will want an answer. You have three days.”
Therron disappeared, his knife leaving with him. Rhene was alone in a Dream that was not his own. Shaking and terrified, he felt his way back to his own mind and laid himself down into bed, where he finally awoke.
He touched his neck and felt cold blood there. It was only small, and it would heal quickly, but questions would be asked. He had to decide on a lie.
Shaving, he thought. I cut it shaving. It’s a little low, but weirder things have happened.
Therron Blaise had found him. Therron Blaise, the man who had created the Oen’Aerei, the man who had gained tremendous power, and in a moment, lost it all. Very few knew what happened on the night he disappeared. Many said he died. The Dreamless knew he had been sealed away in a dream sphere. He should never have been able to break out.
And now he had, and they were all in danger.
He’s going to find me, he thought, terrified now to close his eyes for fear of what he might face within the realms of his own thoughts. He’s going to kill me.
A second thought then clicked in his mind.
“Adabelle,” he whispered. “Adabelle…Blaise. She’s his…daughter.”
As if his head wasn’t already sore, it suddenly began to pound deep within.
But that would make her a Dreamer, a Somnetii: an enemy.
But she lives at the University! She can’t be a Dreamer.
He paused, suddenly feeling stupid. He was a Dreamer, yet he didn’t rank amongst the Oen’Aerei.
She’s a Dreamer…a Wilding. Like me.
Why did he feel so sick all of a sudden? Why did he feel like he had to purge his stomach of all its contents, and then purge his body, and then his veins? He felt unclean, and sick. He wanted something to take his mind off things.
But he was Dreaming, and he could find somewhere else to go. He imagined somewhere quiet. A bubbling river, sided by reeds, and a shady tree under which he could sit.
But the world didn’t change. It didn’t want to shift, despite his best attempt to make his mind change it, it stayed dark, illuminated by a few bars of light from the street outside. He rose from his bed, staring at the window. It was only a small one, but it was big enough for him to climb through. He was Dreaming; he could do anything.
He moved the chair from his desk, hoping his upper body strength would be enough to get him through. Surely he’d be strong enough here.
He balled his hand into a fist—it was only glass, after all—and drew his arm back. He took a deep breath in, closing his eyes. He thought of the glass breaking, imagined it smashing beneath the thrust of his fist, falling away, like a wave against a rock.
He exhaled, throwing his fist forward with all of his might.
There was a crushing sound, but it wasn’t the glass. It was the bones in his hand. The pain shot up his arm, cascading reality down upon him like a massive, painful weight. He wasn’t Dreaming, he quickly realised. He let out an almighty scream, sure he ha just woke the whole Dreamless Barracks.
Chapter Eleven
The Funeral
The very next day at work following her date with Rhene, Adabelle was bombarded with questions from everyone. Of all of the staff at the café, though, it was Georgette who had the most questions. She asked what it was like to kiss him, whether he was a good dancer at all, what the food was like and whether he was ever rude.
“Because, if he was rude at all,” she added, “I would definitely have to kill him.”
She responded in kind at all times, her head spinning slightly from the barrage of questions.
“Leave the girl alone and let her work,” Anna said from her office before closing the door once more.
Georgette just laughed.
“So what did you
do when he dropped you off?” she asked.
“What do you mean?” asked Adabelle as she poured milk into a steaming mug.
“Well…did you…you know…go in?”
“No, what? No! Heavens no! He kissed me goodnight and that was it. He’s not like that, Georgette. He’s a gentleman.”
Georgette laughed to herself. “Say what you will.”
Adabelle slapped Georgette on the wrist. “Don’t be so crude.”
“I’m allowed to be,” Georgette replied. “It is, after all, my job.”
“No,” Anna interjected. “Your job is to make coffee, so get to doing it before I make you do it.”
Georgette, slightly shamefaced, turned back to her work. It was not long before a smirk returned to her face, though, and she was whispering questions from across the bench.
She took herself back to the moment when she’d stood on the University steps, having been kissed goodnight. A small part of her—and it was only small—had wanted to invite him inside. Even if it was only for a drink before bed, she’d wanted to prolong her time with this new man. But she knew that would only lead to certain temptations, and despite her interest, she wasn’t ready for that. Let alone the fact she shared her room with Charlotte. There wasn’t exactly a quiet, secluded place in which she could share her romance.
Instead, she bade him goodnight and he’d left, leaving her slightly breathless.
And now she waited. She waited for him to contact her again, when she could see him again. While with him she had, for a short while, entirely forgotten about the troubles she’d had to face. She’d forgotten about Therron, and the Nhyxes, and Aunt Marie and the funeral she had to go to tomorrow.
Perhaps in Rhene she would find a kind of peace. Perhaps with him she could find a sanctuary away from the father that chased her and the past she tried to escape.
But what if being with him gets him involved? she thought. I couldn’t live with myself if anything bad were to ever happen. She could see Therron now in her mind’s eye, hunting down one of the few good things in her life. Between Rhene and Charlotte, Adabelle couldn’t help but wonder what else she had to live for.